Love, Harry
by meggannn
Summary: Harry’s letters to the deceased. What he never told his godfather, headmaster, professors, friends, and parents. They’re gone now, but Harry still has some things to say.
1. Dear Sirius

**Disclaimer:** Unfortunately not mine.

* * *

**Love, Harry**  
Chapter 1 - _Dear Sirius_

July 21, 1996

Dear Sirius,

Hermione said that this might help, to write you a letter. I don't know how you'll read it, but she said it would find its way to you, one way or another. I suppose I'll just have to take her on faith. After all, maybe it'll make me feel better about this. About you.

I feel like there's so much I haven't said to you. I feel like I should say it now.

I'm so sorry.

I didn't mean to make it seem like

Before I met you, I

Remus always told me that you

I don't think I can do this. I'm sorry.

* * *

July 23, 1996

Dear Sirius,

I owe you some sort of response. I don't want closure, but I feel like I need it. Maybe this really will help.

I can't say that I've ever really considered how I would die. I suppose I probably should, considering how my life's been going thus far, but to be honest, I guess I just don't like thinking about it. Ever since Cedric in the graveyard, death's kind of been a weird thing for me. I know it's entirely possible with the situations I get myself into, but… is it weird to fear death only when it's not your own?

You don't even have a body we could have buried. It's like you never even existed. You deserve a coffin, and a service, and a proper funeral. You deserve so much.

Never mind, this was… this was a bad idea. I was right before. I can't do this. Bye.

* * *

July 25, 1996

Dear Sirius,

I'm sorry. I don't even know why I keep coming back to this. Part of me is furious at you for springing into action the moment you knew I was in danger without thinking about the risks. I want to be able to yell at you for being reckless, being stupid, being so damn loyal – but even imagining being able to scream at you is hard, because that means that you'd be here for me to scream at, and I know that's impossible. Each time I remind myself, it hurts a little more.

I can't believe you had to make us all face your death like this. We're still young. We're teenagers in the middle of a grown-up war. We were just starting to think the world was small enough to manage. I can't believe you.

I miss you so much, Sirius, and nobody and nothing will ever replace you, but when Ron and Hermione are married (we all see that one coming) and have two kids, you won't be there. When Ginny's a champion Seeker for England, you won't be there. When Fred and George have their joke shop and are making millions of Galleons a month, you won't be there. And when I'm an Auror, fighting dark wizards because that's the only stupid job that I'm really even qualified for, you still won't be there.

I'm sorry. I don't blame you for… for coming to Department of Mysteries. I'm glad I got to see you one last time. I'm sorry we never really said goodbye. I didn't mean to… I just… I'm sorry.

* * *

July 31, 1996

Dear Sirius,

It's my birthday today. I'm sixteen, and this morning I had a dream that I was at the Weasleys and I had an actual birthday party, with a cake and everything. I blew out the candles and I wished that what happened last month had been a horrible dream. I don't even want to think about how I felt after I realized it would never come true.

I'm sorry about that last letter. I was angry, like I often am… I don't want to be so mad at you that I won't miss my chance to grieve for you, though. I want to miss you. I don't want to stop.

You won't ever write to me again. It's so hard to come to grips with that. But I have to, because it's the truth: you're dead, deceased, kicked the bucket, met your maker. Gone. And there's nothing I can do to change that. Forget Occlumency. This is the hardest lesson I've ever had to learn.

I don't know if you knew – or know – this, but everybody was kind of nervous about you. I hate to say it, but it was mainly for the reasons that Mrs Weasley mentioned the night I first came to Grimmauld Place. Being in that house must have been horrible, and I know you never really got to mourn my father… so seeing me again was probably confusing. And since I look like him, I can't imagine how that might have been for you to see me. But really, I don't mind you calling or thinking of me as my dad. I never did.

Maybe, when you saw me, it's true that you thought "James" before you thought "Harry." Maybe you were that desperate to have your best friend back. But I don't believe it. You knew the difference. You're with him now, finally, and my mom and Cedric and my grandparents. And I'm still stuck down here.

You represented a lot of things that I never had, and might have needed. I wouldn't know the mental effects on a person who loses his parents at a young age and is forced into growing up in a tense Muggle household – but to me, my life was normal, and it wasn't until I really got to know Ron and Hermione that I realized what I'd missed out on. You brought a lot of it to me, though, or perhaps just a little. But a little of that is better than none. And now I don't even have that.

It's weird, getting all of this out. I never would have told you this if you were still alive. I thought you knew it all. But I guess, considering how you showed up in the Department without seeming to realize what it'd do to me – what it's done to me – if something happened to you, then I guess you didn't know any of this. Normally, I wouldn't tell you. But then again, normally, you would be here.

You're not supposed to be gone. We were supposed to get through this together. You escaped Azkaban, for Merlin's sake, and ran around with a werewolf every month, evaded the Ministry for two years, and survived twelve years with the dementors; surely you could escape death. You have to be alive. For a while, I could convince myself of that, but when you didn't come back through that stupid curtain after I'd screamed and yelled for you, that's when I knew. You've never kept me waiting before.

I'm sorry I was stupid enough to get myself into trouble like that, and risk everyone's lives while was at it. I'm sorry you were locked up and away for twelve years. I'm sorry you and Remus didn't trust each other. I'm sorry you died a fugitive. I'm sorry I didn't agree to meet you in Hogsmeade when you asked me to in the fire. I'm sorry I couldn't fill the gap my father left behind. I'm sorry I cared about you too much to use the mirror. I'm sorry we never really had an honest-to-God talk. I'm sorry I have to say all of this in a post-mortem letter just to have some feasible sense that this will all reach you. I'm sorry you can't hear me say it to you aloud. And I'm sorry that sorry is the only thing I can offer.

You never even got to watch me play Quidditch. It made my day when you told me I fly as well as my dad did.

I would have liked living with you. Did you know that's what I was thinking about when I summoned one of my Patronuses? I can't imagine how you would. I've never told anyone that before. You should have known. I should have said.

You once told me that the ones that love us never really leave us, and that we could always find them – but it's really not the same. You're not here. And that's obvious in the way your absence is like this giant hole that even Remus can't fill for me, though I appreciate his great efforts at trying.

He really misses you, too. This is the second time he's lost you. I suppose he must feel really alone right now. I'll look after him, though. It'll take a while, but I know he'll be okay. I'm just not so sure about myself.

So I guess you're out of it now. It's weird – I've only known you for about three years, and the first doesn't really even count. But I'll never forget the look you gave me in the Shrieking Shack when you asked me to believe your story. I'll never forget how you smiled when I said I'd love to live with you.

I was thinking maybe a house out in the country. Some place where you can see the sky. You probably would have liked that, after being locked up in Azkaban.

When I first saw you – the night I blew up my aunt and ran away from the Dursleys, remember? You saw me right before the Knight Bus came – I thought you were the Grim. I found out later that the Grim was an omen of death. And with a mad mass murderer on the loose that wanted to finish me off, I think I had a decent reason to be scared. I'm sorry I spent the first year knowing of you by fearing and hating you.

Dumbledore said that I was the person you cared most about in the world. I don't know if that's true, but it's kind of nice to believe, so I think I will, for a while. I hope you don't mind.

I wonder if you're one of those all-knowing spiritual beings now. Do you know how all of this will end? Do you know how long I'm allowed to mourn? I want to be able to look back on your death with an acceptable, resigned sadness, but still be able to talk about you without feeling the need to remove myself from the conversation. My parents are too distant for me to feel sad about their deaths; most of the time, all they seem to me, though I hate to say it, are names and faces in old photographs that people give to me to try to make me feel better. But you were real, so much more real. I met you, knew you, saw you, have memories of you – and in a way that's ten times worse, because now those are all I have. At least, with my parents, there wasn't much left as a reminder. Unless you count me, of course.

I don't want to stop writing, or end this letter; it'll feel too final, like I'm closing myself off to you. But I don't know what else to say. I got a lot of it out. And I'm not crying anymore (I'm sorry for the tear stains, by the way, and I don't care who knows about them).

I can't think about Ron and Hermione right now. I can't think about the prophecy or Voldemort. I miss you so much. It's hard for me to focus on or think about much else. I'll never open a new letter from you or hear your voice again. That's all that matters right now.

Dumbledore keeps talking about how love saved me fourteen years ago, and how it keeps saving me from Voldemort. I've never really told anybody I love them; nobody's ever said it to me, either, so love is a pretty weird concept for me, as well. With the way Dumbledore goes on about it, I think he expects it to save all the cats from trees and cure cancer. (Oh, right – cancer is a deadly Muggle disease. There's no cure for it, thus far. You just kind of waste away on a bed somewhere while your family and friends sit by and watch. I don't know which kind of death I prefer; the kind where you know it's coming and you have time to prepare, or the kind like yours: like a Band-Aid, where you rip it off and get it over with. Both options sound horrible. In the end, the person's still gone, no matter how much time you had with them.)

But I'll be all right. I'll be fine. I know I say that a lot, but I mean it this time. I'll be okay. I promise.

Love,

Harry

PS – I'll try my best to beat him. For you and Mum and Dad and Cedric. My word on it.

PPS – Why'd you have to come and try to save me? I hate your stupid nobility. I hate your lack of common sense. I hate it all.

PPPS – No, I don't. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I just can't help wishing.

PPPPS – You were a brilliant godfather. Don't ever doubt that.

PPPPPS – I love you, you know. I love you so much.

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**A/N:** More to come. Hope you like it so far.


	2. Dear Albus

**Disclaimer:** Frustratingly not mine.

* * *

**Love, Harry**  
Chapter 2 – _Dear Albus_

June 28, 1997

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I have some questions for you.

Everyone's been asking me what we were doing the night you died. I've only told Ron and Hermione. Everyone keeps asking me where we were, why we left the school, why did you only take me, what were your last words? I don't know how to answer them without somehow feeling as if I'm betraying your memory. You told me not to stop following your orders, even if you died. I feel bad about being the person keeping all the answers from people like Professor McGonagall and the Weasleys when I still have unanswered questions of my own.

What were you thinking when you died? Did you know Snape was going to kill you? Did you think he would have shown you mercy? Do you know that I was there, watching, as your body toppled off the edge of the battlements? Do you remember how you immobilized me so that I couldn't help you? Did you even think about me at all?

I'm not through with you. How did you figure out… everything? How did you know what to do when Hermione and I had to save Sirius with the time-turner back in our third year? How did you learn to speak Mermish? How did you predict so many of my emotions and moves before I even made them? Why didn't you ever tell me what or why?

What were you thinking?

Harry

* * *

June 29, 1997

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I've never heard you beg before. It scared me. I still can't get over it.

Snape killed you. Snape killed you. You said you trusted him. You said he was on our side. You trusted him, and look where it got you. I wish I had the gall to say "I told you so." (Maybe Sirius can do it for me.)

I hate to let you find out this way, but the Horcrux is a fake. Our journey to the cave was for nothing. Do you know who "R.A.B." is? Even if you do, or did, I suppose it doesn't matter. Whoever he – or she, as Hermione reminds me – is, they have the real Horcrux, and you wasted yourself drinking that potion for nothing.

This is ridiculous. You're dead. Is it completely sick that I'm writing to you? I wrote to Sirius last year, after he died. Have you reconnected with him yet? Do people have the same Afterlife? Is there a Heaven after all?

I wish I believed in Heaven. Then, at least, I'd be able to picture you with a halo, perhaps, and maybe some wings, flying around with all the other angels doing good deeds and maybe even watching over me to make sure my life goes okay. But I don't believe in Heaven. And mostly, when I try to picture you, all I can see is how grim you looked at the end, your body crumpled from the fall and sprawled out on the grounds of Hogwarts.

I hate it, sir. I hate remembering you looking like that.

Harry

* * *

July 14, 1997

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I'm back at the Dursleys, just like you wanted. They seem to know something's happened; it's in the way I'm acting, I suppose. I'm getting ready to leave this house, hopefully forever. Kingsley and Mr Weasley have come to tell them the plan to keep them safe, but Uncle Vernon keeps changing his mind on whether or not to trust "our kind." I think he still remembers Fred's Ton Tongue Toffee that he used on Dudley before the Quidditch World Cup. And then there was that time you visited this place last year. And the dementors before fifth year, of course. He still blames me for that, I can tell. I think Kingsley's appearance and Mad-Eye's intimidation are the only things preventing him from physically harming me. Aunt Petunia just kind of ignores me. And I don't know what Dudley's problem is, but he keeps shooting me these weird looks when he thinks I'm not looking.

Not to doubt your judgment, but I really can't help but wonder what you were thinking when you sent me to live with them. Blood protection or not, sometimes, I doubt if it was really worth it.

Harry

* * *

July 20, 1997

Dear Professor,

I don't know what I'll do with these letters. It's not as if I can just give them to Hedwig and tell her to deliver them to you at Hogwarts. I'd probably just get an official-looking letter back telling me that my message couldn't be delivered due to a "permanent fatal error." Heh, I'll say. That permanently fatal part is what I hate the most about death.

Sometimes, I still can't believe that you're never coming back.

Harry

* * *

August 17, 1997

I can't believe that I thought the questions I had for you before were even remotely important.

I can't believe this. I can't believe Ron's Great-Aunt Muriel. I can't believe Elphias Doge. I can't believe Rita Skeeter. I don't know what to do about all of what's been told to me. I don't know how to come to grips with the fact that you were engaged in the Dark Arts when you were my age.

I can't write to you anymore. Not for a long while, at the very least. I need some time to calm down. I just can't believe this.

Harry

* * *

December 25, 1997

You didn't leave the sword with Bathilda. We went to Godric's Hollow and were attacked. My wand was broken in the fight with Voldemort's snake. And we couldn't even manage to find the time to kill it while we were there.

You didn't plan anything out for us. You left us alone in the middle of a windowless room to try to grope our ways to the door with Voldemort and Death Eaters and God knows what else waiting in the dark to snap at our heels. We're alone. We don't even have Ron anymore.

Did you know he would leave? Did you think his love would make him feel compelled to stay?

Hermione managed to get her hands on your biography, written by Rita Skeeter. I can't say I'm a fan of the woman, but – "for the Muggles' own good"? You were sick. I want to throw this book out the window, but it's given me answers that you've never touched upon, and I'll readily say that I'm greedy for more. I want to know why you never told me we both had family in Godric's Hollow. I want to know how you could pretend it was okay to run off to be a brilliant little boy at Hogwarts while your sister was rotting in a cellar. I want to know why you sent me off to the same lifestyle at the Dursleys, locked away for my magic, instead of your sister's lack of it.

I'm losing everything. Sirius, Hedwig, Remus's trust, Ron's loyalty, you, my wand… Hermione says that the only reason I'm mad is because you didn't tell me all of this yourself. But really, I think that's a fine reason to be angry; didn't you trust me? I trusted you. I trusted you with my life. And you told me nothing, not unless you couldn't help it.

I've been thinking about you a lot lately, sir. I've been thinking about how mad I am at you. Mad at you for dying. Mad at you for leaving me. Mad at you for wrecking my whole entire life.

In fact, I'm so angry at you right now, that I'd be wishing you were dead, if you weren't dead already.

Merry Christmas.

Harry

* * *

April 4, 1998

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Remus has a son. His name is Teddy and I've been named the godfather. I don't know how I think about that. I don't know the first thing about being a part of a child's life. Isn't a godfather supposed to be a respectable person to look up to? And here I am, plotting to break into Gringotts with Godric Gryffindor's sword and a retired goblin. I love Sirius, but he was reckless; I don't want to be the person to set that kind of example for Teddy.

Speaking of Sirius: if you could do me a favor, please tell him I said hi, by the way. I really miss him. That is, if you aren't upset with me from my last letter. I was pretty angry. Reading back over it was kind of embarrassing; it reminded me of that time I smashed apart your office after that Department of Mysteries fiasco. I'm sorry about that, by the way. I never really apologized for it. I hope you were able to replace the things I broke. I never even thought to offer to pay for the damage I did. To you, or to anyone else.

Don't get me wrong; I'm still mad at you. I'm still really, really mad at you. But I don't know what else to do. Voldemort broke into your tomb; he has the Elder Wand, I saw it in a vision. But you wanted me to get the Horcruxes, not the Hallows, so I didn't try to stop him. Is that what you wanted? Would you be mad at me? If you could see me now – what I've done, who I am now – I can't imagine what you would think of me.

I'm not a leader. I can't do this. I can't help them. I don't have what it takes. I don't know what you were thinking.

Dobby is dead because of me. Hedwig is dead because of me. Mad-Eye and Sirius and Cedric and my parents – they're all dead because of me. Even you. You immobilized me in the split second you could've used to protect yourself; you put my life over yours. I don't know why. You were smarter, you figured things out. You knew everything, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me? I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I can't stop thinking about what you did and didn't know, what you should've told me and why you didn't.

I wish you'd quit haunting me and leave me alone. Forever.

Harry

* * *

May 4, 1998

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

How are things up there in heaven? I'm beginning to think maybe it does exist, after what happened the other night.

Before I say goodbye, I just want to say thank you, sir. Thank you for saving my life.

Not sure if you know this, but we won. After I left King's Cross, we faced each other in the Great Hall and I won. We won. I won. It seems like a dream.

And for all I know, maybe it could be. I've had dreams when I defeat Voldemort and have that silly happily-ever-after finale before waking up. But this feels all right; it feels real.

I know you and your brother never really had much of a conclusion. He told us the full story about Ariana the night – morning? – before the battle. I'm sorry I doubted you. But Aberforth blames himself, as well, and I told him after it was all over that I'm sure you wouldn't want him feeling guilty, not when you already were.

Professor McGonagall – actually, she's said it's all right for me to call her Minerva now, so I suppose I will – Minerva and Kingsley are the new Headmistress of Hogwarts and Minister of Magic, respectively. I feel safer with them in charge. It makes me feel like maybe things will be all right, after all.

I wanted to write to you yesterday, but it wasn't really a matter of finding time; I just couldn't bring myself to do it. After my last letters, I feel like I should be ashamed of what I wrote and how I was feeling, but… I'm not. I don't know if that makes me a bad person, but I know that I needed to get my feelings out, and if that meant venting via letters to you, then at least that anger's better out there than bottled up inside. I hope you understand. You understand a lot, especially when it comes to me.

So I was a Horcrux and you never told me; you knew that I had to die – and you knew that at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, Voldemort taking my blood would hurt him more than it would help; but that's two whole years you knew that I had to be killed, and I suppose I can understand your reasoning for not wanting to tell me at the age of thirteen or fourteen, but it still kind of bugs me. But I'll get over it. I think I can forgive you. You were acting out of love, after all.

You know, you're gone. You're dead. But you pulled off this incredible trick. You got me out there, made me do all of these things that I'd never have done otherwise that people say I shouldn't have had to, that I should let the grown-ups figure it out, Harry, just sit back and try to be as normal a teenager as you can try to be; but you were different. Even though you were more or less telling me what to do, I still had to do them on my own. I always thought that I could only do things with you, that I needed your permission before acting. But I guess I was wrong. Honestly, I pulled some of this stuff out of nowhere. I hope you would have been proud… Sorry, I still find it hard to talk about it all sometimes. I do incredibly stupid things at completely inappropriate moments. But at least I know I'm capable of doing some things on my own now.

So I guess I can't be too mad. But I can still miss you. I'm writing this just outside of Kingsley's office in the Ministry of Magic (behind a potted plant and underneath my Cloak; you wouldn't believe how crazy the reporters have been) because he somehow managed to convince me into accepting an Order of Merlin, so I'm waiting for him to open his door and let me sign some finished paperwork or something. Ron, Hermione, Minerva, Hagrid, Luna, Neville, the Weasleys, and a whole bunch of others are coming later to discuss their own awards. I'm alone right now. I'm still alive. I'm extremely tired. I wish I could be back at the school. But thinking of Hogwarts, the one place where I've ever really belonged, reminds me of you; and you've never seemed farther away. I guess it will just take time.

Two days ago, I put the Elder Wand back where it belongs. Ron and Hermione were there. Hermione put some enchantments upon your tomb, and I think she's going to look into more effective, long-lasting spells that will prevent somebody from breaking into it and stealing the wand again. Even if they do, I suppose they'd have to properly beat me to become the true master of the Elder Wand; I'll be careful about that, though. I won't go risking my neck for a while, hopefully. It's over.

I've also decided to do what you never managed to do but what I know you probably wish you did… I'm going to heal my family. I'm going to go home.

Love,

Harry

PS – You seemed really upset when we talked at King's Cross. I guess you've spent your whole life trying to make up for what you did in your youth; you made big mistakes and occasionally lacked the good judgment I've come to associate with your morality. You apologized to me, and I know you're genuinely sorry. It's okay. Of course you're forgiven.


	3. Dear Remus

**Disclaimer:** Indomitably not mine.

* * *

**Love, Harry**  
Chapter 3 – _Dear Remus_

May 5, 1998

You can't be dead. But I saw your body. I went to your funeral. I felt your coffin just before they buried it. It was warm and woody, but you couldn't have been in it. I wanted to open it, to knock and call out your name, but I didn't dare. I went to the service. Yours was a name in a list with all the others, with Tonks and Fred and too many others, and I realized that everybody here is dead… they're all dead! Dozens of dead people – people who will never come back. And then I really did call out your name, and I finally cried. I cried for you, yes, because you never did it for yourself, and you weren't supposed to be with all these dead people, because you can't, you just can't be dead.

But this is it. There's no getting around it, really. You're actually gone.

So, I guess the pain is over for you now. You're in a place where there is no pain, and I guess that's good. But the pain felt by your absence, in the way Minerva tears up when your name is mentioned and in the way Teddy cries for his parents, it's like a wound in our hearts that won't heal. Nobody understands why you had to die when you still had so much to live for. So you're out of it and we have to stay here, feeling your pain as well as our own. It really isn't fair, you know.

I never said this… I know I should have, and I suppose you figured it out in the end, but I really am sorry that I yelled at you back in August. I guess I just couldn't understand why – how – you could willingly leave your wife and child. I should have tried to relate to you. But then again, maybe you should have tried to relate to me. Of all people, I'm the last person who would have understood your reasoning.

Your heart was good, but your pain was so powerful. Your leaving Tonks was a decision made out of love. You put up with your suffering and chose what was right over what was easy. I'm currently requesting for you (along with Sirius, Tonks, and Fred) to receive an Order of Merlin, First Class award posthumously for what you've done in the war. You've earned it. You deserve it. You deserved so much.

Teddy's asleep right now. I met him for the first time today, this morning, before the funeral service. Andromeda brought him to Hogwarts once she was sure everything had calmed down a bit.

I've never held a baby before. I was so terrified that I'd drop or break him or mess up in some way (my luck's got to run out eventually, right?). And I still am scared: I don't know what to do about him, or Ginny, or my apparent 'hero' status, or all the attention, or my future as a whole – but you always had good advice. It hurts to realize I'll never hear it again.

Teddy's wonderful. His hair turned bright green the moment he saw my eyes. Andromeda looked pleased at seeing him with me; she said that we'll all be fine, that we'll get through this, and that she'd like for me to help raise him, but only if I don't feel too overwhelmed about it. I said that I'd love to, though now I don't know if I realized the full extent of what I've agreed to. I don't want to screw up. I want Teddy to grow up to be someone you'd be proud of, and I'm not sure how much of my influence that would require.

Don't think I haven't missed why you named me Teddy's godfather. I expect our conversation in Grimmauld Place had something to do with it, but… you knew you were going to die, didn't you? You must have made an educated guess about it, at least. Both of you. You knew. It wasn't an accident that you made someone who grew up as an orphan godfather to someone who you knew might become one.

Oh, he's just woken up. Hermione, Ginny, and Luna are playing with him right now; he just grabbed Ginny's hair. I think he likes the color of it… yup, that's done it. His hair's a deep red now.

You know, I want to be someone he can look up to. Sirius was kind of like that, for me: sort of like an older brother, just one that doesn't (given my knowledge of the sort, courtesy of Ron) Transfigure your teddy bear into a spider, or tell you that you have to wrestle a troll to get accepted into Hogwarts. (Then again, I suppose I can imagine a younger Sirius doing something like that…) But to Teddy, at least, I want to be more than just another grown-up; Sirius was a good person, and so were you. I want to be like that. I've noticed that really great people make you feel that you, too, can be great. Maybe I can't inspire Teddy to save the Wizarding World or reinvent the wheel, but I can still help him be a good person, I figure. It won't change the world or free it completely of its blood prejudice, but it can help. He's a new start. He'll live in a world without all of that. I'll make sure.

Merlin. I can't believe that Voldemort's gone and there's still so much to do. People want autographs, handshakes, the full story, and I have no idea how to deal with them. I'm just coping. That's kind of how we've always handled all of our problems. You just deal with it, and hope that someday you won't have to anymore. Yours was a chronic problem, though; irreversible and unsolvable. You didn't really have any hope for living a life free of the horror that came with the full moon, though you sure did try to raise your head anyway. I never really realized what you had to go through. I sure appreciate everything a lot better now.

People that have died can't come back, not really. But you guys are still here, I figure. Not as ghosts or apparitions or hallucinations. It's something I don't really know how to put into words… it's just something I know. You guys are still here. People can come back, in a way. They don't have to disappear completely.

Tell Tonks that we're all missing and thinking about her. I hope you, Sirius, and my parents are together now; you've got a lot of catching up to do. Take care.

Love,

Harry 


	4. Dear Fred

**Disclaimer:** Sadly not mine.

* * *

**Love, Harry**  
Chapter 4 – _Dear Fred_

May 5, 1998

Dear Fred,

I've just realized – I never really was a big fan of rules.

I know that you know this. I know that you yourself never followed a rule unless your mother scared you into it. But they're there for a reason, right? They're there to prevent us from doing something stupid or illegal or whatever. They're there to tell us what should happen.

So it should, by all reasoning and basic rules of logic, be acceptable to conclude that this letter will never reach you. But I feel like writing anyway.

I can't say that we're all right yet. It's only been three days, after all – it'll take a while. A long while, I can tell. Or maybe we'll never be okay. I suppose we'll figure that out for ourselves.

George is… doing okay. Not as well as we'd hoped, but better than we'd expected. He still looks for you, as if you're only just standing right next to him, but when he turns to see you, we all know he keeps looking for someone that isn't coming back. Ginny and your mum keep bursting into tears whenever they look at George now; it isn't doing much to calm him down, but at least he's got more than a few shoulders to cry on.

We may think that we'll never get over it, but we also thought it would last forever. With time or without it, I think we'll be okay.

I won't forget the day we met. September 1, at King's Cross, remember? My first year, your third. You and George were kidding around when your mum told you to go through to the platform. And then you helped me carry my trunk into my compartment. When the Chamber of Secrets opened, you made jokes about how I was the heir of Slytherin, just to make me feel better… and then you gave me the Marauder's Map… when you tried to enter the Triwizard Tournament, you tried fooling Dumbledore's Age Line; I still have pictures of your beards that Colin took, though I'm not sure if it's appropriate to be laughing at them right now. And of course the fireworks you set off when Umbridge was giving us our O.W.L.s. Brilliance. You're unforgettable.

I'd like to remember those things when I think of you. Not how you looked in the Battle of Hogwarts, having died just after you said something about how you couldn't believe Percy was joking with the Minister. But you died laughing. It's appropriate. We'll miss you so much.

God, Fred. Why you? You and George were just… invincible. Ron and I may have thought you were lunatics at times, but we did look up to you; you were always good for a laugh. You were always there to make others feel better. You knew when to joke around and when not to.

It's a really scary thing, to love what you know has a very large chance of dying. Sometimes, I almost – almost – wish I was back in that stupid cupboard. That was before I knew about Voldemort and Hogwarts. That was before I knew enough people to miss them when they died. Sometimes I wish I could be ignorant of it all again; I wouldn't have to feel so much pain and misery.

But you and yours made it all worthwhile. Your mum and dad – they'll never know how much I appreciated their love. You'll never know how much I appreciated all of your family taking me in, as if it were no trouble at all, as if you were glad to have me there; I'd spent ten years growing up being told that I was a waste of space. Meeting your family, the first family I'd ever seen genuinely happy, and being invited to join it, meant more than I can ever express.

…Oh, sorry, my name's being called. I think it's time for dinner. I'll come back to you later.

Love,

Harry

* * *

April 1, 1999

Dear Fred,

Happy birthday. You would've been twenty-one today. I'm sending you a theoretical birthday cake along with this letter. I hope it tastes good, if just in your imagination. You had a pretty good one.

I said I'd be back, but it's been nearly a year, hasn't it? I wish I could say that it was simply a matter of gathering myself together to figure out what I else wanted to say, but in all honesty, it must've just slipped my brain. We've been busy. I just found that previous letter I wrote in my old bag as I was cleaning it out.

I can't even remember half the things that I wanted to say. I suppose I'll just tell you what's been going on lately. It'll come to me eventually.

George has been running the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes with Ron, but Ron's decided to join me in the Auror department, so I think George'll be recruiting Angelina into helping with the shop instead. I'm pretty sure you took Angelina to the Yule Ball on Christmas Eve that one night in your sixth year, remember? To be honest, I think there's something going on between them right now, though you'd never hear me admit it aloud. At least, not yet. There's still time.

You know, when writing the date at the top of this letter, I accidentally wrote an extra '9' so it read 'April 1, 19999.' I just added 18000 years onto now. And… wow, I suppose one day, the year 19999 really will exist. It's unnerving. It's a future I can't really imagine. Then again, neither was all of this. At least I can be sure that that future will be Voldemort-free.

People are getting used to saying his name. Ron jokes about how I've been acting as 'the Voldemort police' (he must've learned what the 'police' are from Hermione – they're dating now, by the way, as if you didn't see that happening), what with all my telling people not to call him 'You-Know-Who' anymore. In my defense, I don't see the use of a name if people are just going to say 'You-Know-Who,' anyway. Might as well call him by his real name. Voldemort or Tom Riddle, he's still dead. Nothing to fear from him anymore. I suppose the worst that could happen is his coming back as a ghost (with how scared he was of death, I suppose that's entirely possible, though I'd eat a Blast-Ended Skrewt to keep that from happening).

What did I talk about the last time I wrote? … Oh, rules, I see now. Well, I can't think of anything less interesting than that, especially for you. Though I can't help thinking that maybe if you'd paid attention to a few of the rules set down by your mum, then you wouldn't be gone. But I know that never would've stopped you. You never were afraid of death. Still, sometimes, I can't help wishing that you had been.

Thank you, Fred – thank you so much. In the midst of such a brutal war, you managed to make people laugh, and that takes a kind of courage that I don't think if I ever had. You could put on a grin and cheer everyone up. I don't know how our lives would have been if we hadn't had you and George (and Lee) to remind us to see the brighter side every now and then.

Ah… Sorry, I have to go again. It looks like there are a few Voldemort sympathizers running around over in Windsor. We'll take care of them.

Who knows if I'll ever be able to find time to write again – I've pretty much dedicated myself to being an Auror, Minerva has been asking me to come into instruct a few Defense lessons for older Hogwarts students, and Ginny and I are still pretty, well… we're doing pretty well. I'll be fairly busy for a while. You know how it goes. But we'll always love you, and we'll always miss you, and I'll never forget that getting in trouble every now and then is good for you, and it's quite all right to put a swamp in a hallway.

Love,

Harry


	5. Dear Severus

**Disclaimer:** Stubbornly not mine.

* * *

**Love, Harry**  
Chapter 5 – _Dear Severus_

April 3, 1999

S. Snape,

When I think back on it, I realize that I never really th

Before you died in the Shrieking Shack, I never thought that

I'm sorry. I just don't know how to begin this. Maybe I should give myself another day to gather my thoughts.

* * *

April 3, 1999

…Then again, yesterday, I said "tomorrow." I suppose I should just do it now.

I can't imagine I'd ever write to you. I'm sure we'd probably both agree it's a shock for me to tell you that I'd like to see you once more, at least, just to get all of this out in the open.

I really

Ah… never mind. I guess I do need a bit longer. Sorry.

* * *

May 2, 1999

Dear S. Snape,

I really have wanted to write this for a while. I suppose I just couldn't get myself together.

I hope you don't throw this letter away as soon as you see who it's from. If you read it, I think this would… finish something for me. We never really got closure. Maybe this will help.

It's the one-year anniversary of your death, one among countless others that died in battle. There was a memorial service this morning, and they asked me to give a speech, but I didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound petty or insincere, so I opted out of it. Everybody's heard it all before, anyway. I'll let the politicians work that out.

Given that you've both passed on, maybe you've already spoken to her yourself by now, but I'm sure my mother would have appreciated what you've done for me. She must have forgiven you for that scene by the lake at the end of your fifth year by now. (Or, if she hasn't, then I suppose she's even better at holding grudges than I am.) I can't speak for her, but you should have her forgiveness, after all your efforts to deserve it.

I don't know if you'd have wanted me to clear your name; you made Dumbledore give you his word that he'd "never reveal the best of you," though I think what humiliation you might feel at everyone knowing you've been protecting me is overshadowed by the bravery of it all. Even still, I haven't told your real story to anyone (except Ron and Hermione, who I know won't tell a soul; I think that after all they've been through, they deserve to know as much as I do). At the very least, I've taken over in Dumbledore's old duty to stand up for your name. Most people trust my word, though I can tell there will always be some doubters. You were almost listed as a Death Eater in the history books until we had to step in. You were one, technically, and I'm not telling them not to mention that, but you changed your mind as soon as you realized Voldemort was targeting my mother. Even if your decision to switch sides wasn't made out of a personal change of heart, it was still one made out of love, when it comes down to it, and that counts for a lot.

There's something else I should say. I swear I didn't mean to pry when I fell into the Pensieve during that Occlumency lesson. Who knows if you'll believe me, but I really didn't. If it makes you feel any better, I spent weeks doubting my father. You were right; he was every bit as arrogant as you'd ever said. Sirius and Remus tried to assure me that he changed, and I suppose he must have gotten better if my mother ever married him, but that doesn't excuse his behavior.

Speaking of my father. I know you two hated each other, and I know you hated Sirius (though whether or not you and Remus ever really disliked each other to that intensity, I can't be sure), but I hope you've all been able to accept that you were on the same side. You just wanted to protect me. I can't be upset for that.

This'll be rich, coming from me, but I'm also… really sorry about what happened by the lake that day. I know it's not my place to apologize for it, but… watching that reminded me too much of my own childhood (I was kind of bullied myself, though not to the extent at which you seemed to be) for me to take my father's and Sirius's side. I'm not saying your retaliation against my mother was justified or acceptable, but coming from someone who's been on all sides of anger, I can understand why and how you did it. I say a lot of things I don't mean when I'm miffed. I get that.

I know I got angry at you a lot, particularly during our Occlumency lessons in my fifth year. I was angry for practically that entire year, often for no good reason; I admit that I could have made a better effort at being more polite. Even if I wasn't happy at the time (though ultimately, I don't think there's such a thing as a "happy teenager")… I could have been civil, at the very least. That was my problem.

Dumbledore always went on about love. Me personally, I suppose I've always been a bit scared of loving somebody. You're opening yourself up to something so good that there's got to be a catch; and there is. You're opening yourself up to so many possible bad things as well. What if it doesn't work out? But hell, then again, what if it does?

It's just one of those leaps of faith, I guess. Nobody ever guaranteed a soft landing.

I can't believe I'm talking about this. You're dead; you bitterly dedicated nearly half of your life to protecting mine just so that my mom wouldn't have died in vain and I'm writing a letter to you about love. This is so bizarrely surreal. You must think I'm wasting your time.

You really went through a lot. It was… unfortunate, I suppose (though that word doesn't really sound right), that your life turned out the way it did. I keep thinking that you should've had another chance. But maybe you wouldn't have wanted one. Maybe you were satisfied. I'll never be sure. But I definitely think that you deserved better.

I don't know. Maybe that's just the way it is with people. Maybe there's just nothing anybody can do to help anybody else. Though I don't think that shouldn't stop us from trying.

Nothing turned out as we expected. It never does. Then again, life's under no obligation to give us what we expect. We take what we get and should be thankful it's no worse than it is. You did that, bitterly, but accepted everything that was thrown at you. That took bravery, and lots of it.

Goodbye, sir. I'm sorry I made your life so miserable. And I hope you've reconnected with my mother, if you haven't already. You guys should talk. About… everything. If she's half the woman I've heard about, she won't be mad. She didn't seem like one to fill her heart with hatred. More with love, if you will.

Thank you.

Harry

PS – I'm sorry I called you a coward. You weren't. You never were. I know you don't even like us Gryffindors. But if you'll permit me saying, I think that if waking up every day knowing you had to protect the son of a man you hated and a woman you loved doesn't deserve some sort of award or formal recognition, then nothing does.

PPS – Ginny says that she'd like to thank you for not punishing her that one time when the Carrows caught her standing up for Muggle-borns in Muggle Studies. She's really thankful for it. Really, we all are. We'll remember what you've done, and we'll forever appreciate it. Always.


	6. Dear James

**Disclaimer:** Scrupulously not mine.

* * *

**Love, Harry**  
Chapter 6 – _Dear James_

March 27, 2003

Dear Dad,

I'm getting married next week. I can't imagine how you did this as soon as you got out of Hogwarts; I'm terrified. Ron had to threaten to slug me just so I could get my act together. I don't blame him. After dating his sister for six years I imagine he's going to be extra careful around me when it comes to Ginny from now on.

I wish you could be here. I don't understand why you had to die so young. But I suppose just because I don't understand doesn't mean an explanation doesn't exist. Maybe I had to learn to do this all on my own, just like you did.

Wow, I'm older than you were when you died. That's unnerving. And a kid at twenty? I couldn't do that. Ginny wants children, but I'm not so sure how I'd do as a father. I never really had anybody to draw experience from. Not that I blame you, of course – don't go feeling guilty or anything – ah, blimey. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. I wish I could just quote somebody here and have them say it for me. My thoughts tend to sound better in books that I didn't write. But even then, sometimes there isn't anything that can really explain the way I feel, and that's exhilarating, in a way; there's a double-edged comfort in knowing that no one really knows.

But you would've known, I think. You seem like the kind of person who could relate.

People used to ask me all the time if I was okay at some point or another in my life. Am I okay after Voldemort came back? Am I okay after my godfather died? Am I okay after my headmaster was murdered? Am I okay after walking into a circle of Death Eaters and dying? They always used to ask, but they never really expected the truth. Truth is, if I was okay, they wouldn't have to wonder.

I thought a lot of it was karma, most of the time. I thought I deserved all of that. The Dursleys always made me feel as if everything was my fault, and after all the stuff that happened at Hogwarts, I figured I must've done something really bad in a past life. I kept waiting to be rescued, but for whatever reason, no one came. I started believing that if nobody protected me, then I must not be worth protecting. All I think I needed was someone to come around and tell me I'd suffered long enough.

But then there were times when Ron and Hermione would sit with me in the common room and all we would do was talk. About nothing. Quidditch or Transfiguration class or the latest celebrity scandal or our favorite types of jam. A few moments of normal surrounded by death and dire situations. It felt nice. It made it all worth it.

But of course, when we're faced with the basilisks and dementors and Death Eaters, most of us prefer to turn around and go back. I wanted to run back to Ron and Hermione and those nights by the Gryffindor fire. I wanted to go back to the last time I was happy and hold on for dear life. I don't know what it says about me in how I didn't.

Many would hate me for saying this, but sometimes I think that maybe it's better that Voldemort came around. I'm not saying the wars or deaths were good, but all this racism… it was bound to surface eventually. Fact is, it could have been worse. Much worse. Voldemort could have been smarter. We could have lost. I think I'm almost glad that I went through it all. I'm glad the world has learned a lesson. Because if everything was always smooth and perfect, you'd get too used to that, you know? You have to have a little bit of disorganization now and there. Otherwise, you'll never really enjoy it when things go right. I'm enjoying this world a lot more now that I know what the alternative could have been.

There's… There's kind of been something on my mind. I just need to say it. It's – I mean, I always had this fear that one day I was going to discover that you weren't as great as I thought you were. That day came in my fifth year. I don't know if you know this, but I kind of… ended up in Snape's Pensieve. I saw what happened by the edge of the lake in 1976 after your O.W.L.s. I saw the type of person you were. And after spending ten years jammed in a cupboard being bullied by Dudley and his minions, it was – and is still – very hard for me to take your side. Snape wasn't an angel himself, but I don't think I can ever be proud of who you used to be. It's a shame that you didn't live long enough for me to love the person you came to be. But I know you were a good person (not only just because Mum, who seemed like an incredibly stubborn girl even at fifteen, finally said yes). You sacrificed your life for mine. That must have taken bravery. Or a whole lot of love. Either way, once I remembered that, I felt better. So thanks.

I'll be honest. For a long while, I didn't think your sacrifices were worth it. I couldn't understand why you and Mum had given everything up for me. I used to be so scared that you'd given up your lives for nothing. A lot of the stuff I did – sometimes what kept me going was so I could make sure you hadn't died in vain.

It was hard to remember that, sometimes. It was hard to remember your love, or my friends', or Dumbledore's, because of all the entanglements and insecurities and worries and obsessions and trivial arguments. Everyone else thought I was overreacting. I still don't know if I had been; if it was because of my temper or my teenage angst or my connection to Voldemort; even still, sometimes, it was hard to remember what I was doing and why I was doing it. It was hard to remember what was keeping me grounded. After all, some emotions don't make a lot of noise. It's hard to hear pride. Caring is like a real faint heartbeat. And pure love – some days, it was so quiet that I didn't even know it was there.

But I figure, if you enter this world knowing you're loved and leave it knowing the same, then everything that happens in between can be dealt with. It worked for me.

Ron says that I'm crazy for writing to my dead dad. I think Hermione is worried; when she suggested I write a letter to Sirius after his death, I don't think she wanted me to keep writing to deceased people; she thinks I'm relying on it, or in denial, or something. But I'm not, really. Though I think that, if I keep doing this, I might be. So this letter is just to say that I don't think I'll be writing anymore. Of course I'll miss you guys, but I'm going to see you eventually, so I'm going to live my life until that time comes.

So thanks, Dad. Thanks so much. Sometimes you and Mum seem so far away that I don't even think about or register you guys. But I'll never stop loving you, and I'll never forget what you did to make sure I'm where I am right now. I'm going to live my life as well as I can. I'll try my best. Like you did.

Love,

Harry


	7. Dear Harry

**Disclaimer:** Unquestionably not mine.

* * *

**Love, Harry**  
Chapter 7 –_ Dear Harry_

Dear Harry,

There are a million ways I could begin this, but none could ever fully express what I wish I could tell you right now. I should say that I hope this letter finds you well, but truthfully I do not know whether it shall find you at all. I suppose I'll just have to do as you did when you first addressed Sirius and take it on faith this reaches you in good health and happiness.

I must say, when I saw you in the forest during the Battle of Hogwarts, I noticed a few things. Sirius, Remus, and Albus always mentioned how alike we looked; me personally, I didn't see it. My nose is a tad longer. Your hair's less scruffy. My forehead's a bit taller. But I still recognized you. You've got your mother's eyes.

Wait. Sirius said it annoyed you when people said that. I'm sorry; I should have remembered. I need more practice at this parenting thing, I suppose. It's… unfortunate, to say the least, that your mother and I didn't get more time to get better at it.

Ever since I died, I've been asking myself what-ifs. What if we hadn't switched our Secret-Keeper – would have been betrayed eventually anyway? What if I had remembered to grab my wand when I ran from the living room to face him on that Halloween night? What if he had managed to kill your mother before she had her chance to sacrifice her life for yours?

But those don't matter, I suppose. If wishes were fishes… as the old saying goes. Blimey, I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. I used to be so good at writing letters. I've never written one like this, though.

I remember the first time you saw me; it was in that mirror back in your first year at Hogwarts. I'm glad you didn't spend too much time in front of that thing. I found it one time in my fifth year; spent a few weeks staring into it and it took a good punch from Sirius to bring my head back to reality.

And then again, in your fourth year, after the third task of the Triwizard Tournament… I'd never been more scared for you. I can honestly say that you handled that with more bravery than I could ever find in myself.

In regards to my Hogwarts years, since I know that's what ailed you most in regards to who I was when I was your age… You were right, Harry. I was arrogant. I was a bully. I don't deny those things, and I can't justify what I did. I suppose it wouldn't do me any good if I said that Severus himself never lost a chance to goad Sirius or me; I should have been the better man. But I was young and stupid. And I was so incredibly happy to see that you weren't as I was at that age. I'm so proud of you for not making excuses, even for me. You knew your morals and you stuck to them. Really, that's what a hero is, in the end. I know you probably don't like being called such, but please grant me the permission to just this once, at the very least. It's been a while since I've been a dad, and I've never been able to brag about my son's accomplishments at luncheons.

Speaking of being a dad – I hear that Ginny and you are expecting, and I send my sincerest congratulations and best wishes. I humbly suggest James if it is a lad, if he's to be the clever mischief-making sort, though I might imagine there are some (whose Animagus may be a big, black dog-like shape) who might raise an objection to it on the grounds of nepotism while not-so-subtly suggesting his own name for consideration. In contrast to your dear late father's heartfelt advice, he also counsels you against anything beginning with _J_ and ending in _ames_, in the hopes of preventing widespread destruction caused by the large gusts of wind that would no doubt result from all of the heads turning in unison at our family dinners.

Before I conclude this, your mother encloses her love; this ought to be a heavy letter.

Oh, and Sirius, Remus, and your friend Fred send you their warmest wishes as well; and, in the case of the latter, a large theoretical box of Dr Filibuster's Fireworks. He says that you'd understand the joke.

Albus – bloody hell, everyone sends a big whopping cargo of oozing warm sentiments, and I'm running out of space on the page. I'll wrap this up.

I'd like to say that I don't blame you at all for deciding to stop writing. None of us do; we all understand. You should live your life. After all that you've done, you deserve it.

And for what it's worth: it's never too late or, in your case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit; you can stop and start whenever you want. You can change or stay the same. All I hope is that you live a life you're proud of; and if you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.

Do not think of Tom Riddle, or of illness, or what you have lost. The universe is large, and you are young; I'm certain that you'll find happiness in this world, as your mother and I have managed to do in spite of all. We are so proud of you. We love you, Harry. We've always loved you.

The best of luck until we shall meet, and I shall embrace you as a son.

All my love,

Dad


End file.
